


handshake

by perspicuity



Category: Pocket Monsters: Black & White | Pokemon Black and White Versions
Genre: Friendship, Gen, intended as friends but can be read as platonic or romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3424058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perspicuity/pseuds/perspicuity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Handshakes signal new beginnings, new relationships. They signal goodbyes and farewells. But sometimes they're symbols of reconciliation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	handshake

          He stopped, looked back, laughed. His laugh was hoarse, dry, weighed down by years of lies. The dismal light in the room did not reach his eyes. His outstretched hand reached for hers, but she remained just out of reach. As it always was, then.

          She stared, but refused to look at him. Sweat dripped from her chin and onto her shirt. Her hat was nowhere in sight. Her fists remained balled at her sides; her palms began to ache from the pressure. She ignored his hand.

          The burn on her arm ached, hurt worse than anything she had ever felt, almost worse than the aching in his chest. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but Reshiram’s attack had gone haywire. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but he seemed to be saying that a lot lately.

          He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, a coughing fit shook his body, sent him gasping for air as he leaned on his knees. The heavy dust was starting to settle, and it was only then when he realized exactly how much damage their battle had caused.

          The once great pearl columns crumbled, great slabs of marble lay broken. Dust streamed down from the weakened ceiling.  A gaping hole in the outer wall allowed the dim moonlight to filter into the formerly grand hall. The throne at the opposite side of the room remained untouched.

          She opened her fists and barely recognized the small crescents of crimson. She briskly wiped her hands on her shorts before turning to face Zekrom. The beast nodded and allowed her to rest her hand upon its wizened snout. She gave a curt nod and said nothing, refusing to acknowledge N’s rasping breath.

          He had been knocked down during their battle. Reshiram had been hit by a fusion bolt and was thrown backwards into him. He had tried to dodge, but he wasn’t quick enough. The collision had sent him flying backwards at least ten feet, Hilda reckoned, and it was all he could manage to stand back up on wobbly knees. Hilda was too infuriated with him to worry about any of the injuries he had sustained. After all, it was what he deserved.

          Or that’s at least what she wanted to think.

          He stopped coughing and raised his hand to his face. No red, he noticed. He was fine, for now. He glanced at Hilda and her Zekrom, then to his fainted Reshiram. Its snow white fur was now dingy and drab, covered in dust and something decidedly sticky.  His eyes widened. Immediately, he pulled out the legendary’s pokéball and returned the creature. Too many Pokémon had been hurt because of his pointless dreams. Too many people as well, he realized.

          He lifted his head and brushed the hair from his eyes. His breath hitched in his throat once he realized that Hilda’s eyes were searing into him. His first instinct was to look at something, anything else, to turn away and act like she wasn’t standing there, but he held his ground, albeit somewhat shakily.

          Hilda’s back ached and blood ran from her skinned knees. Her long, brown hair cascaded around her, encompassing her in a matted chocolate mess. Her bangs clung to her forehead. She could feel her swollen ankle pressing against her combat boot. She wanted nothing more than to ignore the boy in front of her and to lie down and sleep for weeks and weeks, but she held her ground.

          He extended his hand once more, now that he had her attention. Rather, now that she held his attention. This time, she looked at him. His lanky figure was slouched and hurt. His shirt had been torn and scorched were his Pokémon had slammed into him. His pants were covered in debris. His hair had escaped its ponytail and resembled an entangled mess of vines and weeds. He resembled not the king he was but a lost vagabond. She blinked.

          Slowly, he began walking – limping – toward her. She stood tall, with proper posture and head poised. He continued moving forward, keeping his hand outstretched. A chilling wind whistled through the battlefield. Another stream of dust cascaded from the ceiling.

          N stopped within three feet of her. He towered over her, standing at least a foot above her small figure. She was all strength and could knock him over with a flick of the wrist; his height meant nothing against her sturdy build. Hilda glared up at him, wishing that she could find that strength in her to kick his shins and bring him to his rightful level, but she couldn’t.

          This wasn’t right. She was supposed to be standing over his cowering body, chastising him for everything Plasma had done, for everything _he_ had done. She was supposed to handcuff him and hand him over to Alder and the authorities. She was supposed to torment him with her victory and his loss, to proclaim that her ideals were stronger than his. Hilda was the winner and N was the loser; it was her right to gloat and shame. But she couldn’t.

          He was frail, and he was beginning to crack. Those fine, hair-line cracks had appeared that day at the Ferris wheel. He had tried to hide them, had tried to repair them, but they only grew larger and wider each time he and Hilda had met subsequently. Those cracks were now chasms, and she could see deep into them. His life was falling apart in front of him, and he knew.

          His hand remained elevated between them. He was accepting his defeat, she knew. But he was also accepting the loss of everything he had ever wanted, everything he once was. She released a deep sigh. She was triumphant. Pokémon would remain with their loving trainers, and Plasma was done for. And by extension, N was too.

          He choked back another coughing fit. He raised his left hand to cover his mouth, leaving his right extended. Tears swelled at the corners of his eyes, though it wasn’t entirely clear if the coughing was the cause. Hilda’s expression remained unchanged.  The feeling slowly left him, and he rubbed his eyes with the bottom of his palm. His face was red, his hands shaky. Hilda continued to stand her ground.

          Despite his tense features, his lips spread thin, and he attempted a half-hearted smile. Hilda blinked. He looked pitiful, she thought. She almost couldn’t believe that the pathetic boy standing in front of her was the prideful trainer she had met all those months ago in Accumula. The king had been vanquished. The only thing left was a sniveling child.

          Hilda thought back to a few hours ago, when she had first walked into the castle. She remembered the supposedly hallowed halls and the endless number of doorways giving entry to Plasma’s many secrets. She remembered the two women who invited her in, who healed her Pokémon. They were kind, sweet and motherly. They told her about N, told her about his troubles, his misguided sense of truth and valor. He was a lost boy, they had said. He meant well, they had said. Hilda had trouble believing that when she had first walked into the throne room. Now she was starting to understand. She looked into his eyes.

          She immediately thought of the playroom. The sickly-sweet music, the smell of plastic toys and dusty carpet. The room was representative of years and years of emotional manipulation, she knew. Discarded toys littered the floor. She nearly tripped as she approached a lone basketball in the middle of the room. The name “Harmonia” was childishly scribbled in black marker on the ball. She held the ball as she studied the crayon drawings of Pokémon strewn out across the floor. The room smelled musty and nostalgic and terrible and she wanted to leave, but something made her stay. She took in a deep breath and took in the entirety of the dimly lit room. N’s childhood had been squandered, and his teenage years were filled with lies of kings and ideals and truths.

          The figure in front of her had finally realized everything Hilda had realized in that playroom. He continued to shake.

          He let his hand fall.

          Breaking her stare, she glanced down and immediately grasped his hand in a firm grip.

          His eyes widened in shock. Her grip tightened as she tried to counteract his trembling. N's knees weakened, and the shuddering nearly overtook his figure. Hilda wasn't about to have him faint on her.

          She tugged on his hand in test, and with an unceremonious grunt, pulled him down into her arms and held his shaking figure.

          The tremors grew worse, but Hilda only held him tighter. She held onto the fabric of his shirt and rested her chin upon his shoulder.

          She faintly recognized his muffled sobs and only held him tighter.

          He clung to her, his head buried in her mess of hair. His sobs grew louder, his tears flowed faster.  
               
          Hilda ignored the pulsating pain from the burn on her left arm. She ignored his uncharacteristic show of emotion. She began rocking back and forth on her heels in an attempt to sooth him. After a few moments of rocking, she began humming.

          She continued humming and rocking until N's brokenhearted sobs faded to quiet cries.

          "I'm sorry."

          His voice was barely above a hoarse whisper, barely audible. She stifled a sob of her own and only held him tighter. He returned her grip.

          The moon continued shining into the dilapidated battleground. The stars shimmered and sparkled in the cloudless sky. Zekrom let out a faint grumble and settled into a resting position.

          "I'm sorry."

          His knees buckled. Hilda, surprised by the sudden force, was unable to support him. The two fell to the ground.

          Hilda remained kneeling, still holding the boy.

          "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He repeated the phrase over and over, never fully indicating what exactly he was sorry about. She didn't care. She ran a cautious hand through his hair, pulling out pieces of rubble as she went.

          He continued to mumble and blubber. Hilda was silent. There was nothing to say. The only thing she could do was hold him.

 


End file.
